Lurking Within

By Ariane Rivendell

Episode tag. Rollin is haunted by unforeseen possibilities in the aftermath of "The Town".

A/N: "The Town" is one of my favourites of the entire series due to its wonderful underscoring of the team's human connection (despite Bruce Geller's wish to avoid such "distractions"). Martin Landau shines brilliantly for me in this episode, carrying, with beautiful sincerity, the portrayal of Rollin and Jim's deep friendship almost entirely on his own. Yet Michael O'Herlihy's impressive directing efforts cannot be diminished; arguably demonstrated most poignantly in the moment in which Rollin is told that Jim has suffered a stroke. While Landau plays the scene with a depth that jumps off the screen, it is O'Herlihy's direction that punctuates it with a cinematic exclamation point. He relays, to incredible effect, the punched-in-the-gut feeling Rollin must be experiencing, providing a rare glimpse of the close kinship between the team and especially between Jim and Rollin. It is from that moment, this was written.

Jim sat with a weary huff onto the living room chair in his apartment and scanned his team in one glance. "Alright. Let's begin. Tell me everything that happened, starting with you, Rollin."

"No."

Jim's startled glance turned to the firm and defiant expression on Barney Collier's face. "I'm sorry, Barney, I'm sure you have a lot to add, but I'd like to hear from Rollin, first."

"And I said 'no'."

Time stretched a beat. "I beg your pardon?" Jim asked, eyes narrowing.

"You heard me," Barney reiterated, calmly sliding a hand into his pants pocket.

Jim straightened up in the chair, suspicious eyes raking over his team. "What the devil is this about?"

"Jim," Cinnamon injected, her voice soothing and calm. The kind of tone she adopts that somehow gets people to listen, Jim noted. "Please try to understand. From our perspective. You were held captive and at the mercy of the townspeople for an inordinate period of time. We need to be sure," she pointedly looked at the team leader, locking eyes with him.

Jim was about to open his mouth to object, but after several moments of consideration, he reluctantly settled back into the chair.

"We're sorry, Jim—"

"No, Willy. Don't apologize," Jim reassured, a hand up. "You're right. All of you." Jim sighed deeply then eyed the anxious faces of his team, noting, in particular, the troubled look on Rollin's face, mistaking it for concern about the "shredding" he was about to receive. Taking that as his cue, Jim closed his eyes briefly in mental preparation for what was sure to be a brutal session. "Alright. Let's do this."

The team questioned Jim thoroughly to determine whether he had been debriefed or reprogrammed by the Target. Without fully knowing whom they had been dealing with, the IMF team's efforts had to be particularly harsh and unforgiving. Throughout the session, Jim realized they were employing new techniques designed just for him; they knew how he thought and knew his means for counteracting the usual means of acquiring information. Clearly, they'd planned this while he was being medically checked after the rescue.

Finally, satisfied that Jim Phelps had not been reprogrammed nor debriefed by the townspeople, they could finally commence with their usual full team debriefing.

After Rollin had concluded his statements with clinical detachment, Cinnamon was next. During her recounting of the phone call she'd received from Rollin, Barney's attention had flicked to Rollin, who'd taken up residence on the couch, his lean frame tense, as if he were holding himself up. Rollin's eyes were fixated on some distant place in his mind as Cinnamon recounted the story but at the mention of Jim's "stroke", a frown darkened Rollin's face. He seemed to cave in on himself, eyes darkening with an almost tormented look about them, fingernails uncharacteristically picking at each other. When Cinnamon's tale reached her arrival in the town, Rollin's shoulders seemed to relax a little but the frown on his face never left and he kept his eyes closed as he listened.

Barney followed Willy and Cinnamon as the trio tiredly traipsed out of Jim's black and white San Francisco apartment. His eyes slid surreptitiously to peek inside as he slowly closed the front door, wondering and yet knowing, somehow, why Rollin wasn't accompanying the rest of the team. He'd quietly noticed the almost imperceptible transition from a relieved to an introspective Rollin when the team whisked Jim away from the town to a hospital to get him checked out.

In the ensuing debriefing – just ended – at Jim's apartment, Barney had kept his eyes and ears open on Rollin as they discussed the recent and unexpected "mission" that nearly cost them one of their own. Rollin had provided his version of events with a professional recounting of facts and observations, but Barney had also noted Rollin's constant surveillance of Jim throughout the proceedings and the thoughtful drop of his eyes when he noticed Barney watching him. Jim had been on his way to meet Rollin when this fiasco began and Barney could only surmise what Rollin must have gone through when he went back to find Jim only to be confronted with a dangerous scenario that was quickly unfolding before his eyes.

Now, with Rollin remaining behind, it was clear he wasn't finished and Barney wondered what Rollin had left unsaid for all these hours. No matter, he had a fair idea of what it involved. He'd confront him on it later. Barney closed the door and followed after Cinnamon and Willy.

Quiet descended in the expansive, posh apartment.

Jim cocked his head and with a curious expression looked across to Rollin sitting on the stairs. "You're still here."

The lean master of disguise had his elbows on widened knees, a hand overlaying the other against his cheek as he eyed the IMF leader with a serious, yet weary expression. "You didn't really think we were finished, did you?" Rollin's voice sounded a little raw.

An eyebrow shot up. "Nine straight hours of debriefing and you still think there's something left to discuss?" Jim leaned forward and rubbed his face in his hands.

"Very much, Jim," Rollin answered, his tone evident that the IMF team leader should have understood this.

A suspicious eye peeked out. "You still think I've been compromised," Jim stated with an edge of accusation.

It was Rollin's turn to be surprised and he sat up straighter. "Of course not."

Then why else are you still here? Jim weighed whether he wanted to start something new or get some shut-eye, first. Despite his overwhelming need to find a nice, warm bed, however, he reluctantly dismissed luxury for work just to get this over with; deal with everything while it was fresh in their minds. Get the broom in all the corners and sweep everything out, his grandmother used to say. Jim relented with unmasked weariness and a heavy sigh as he leaned back in the chair, arms hiked up on the armrests, "Alright. What did you want to talk about?"

Rollin cocked his head as he lanced Jim with a pointed look, hands falling to his knees. "The one thing, Jim. The one thing that could change everything."

Puzzlement washed over Jim's face. His fatigue was beginning to settle in because Rollin's cryptic answers were beginning to grate on his nerves. "If you have something to say, Rollin, then say it. I'm not really in the mood for guessing games," he said the last softly, trying to ease down the irritation in his voice.

Rollin stood and made his way down the stairs, incredulity on his features, "I can't believe it hasn't occurred to you."

"Rollin, despite the many times I have had to feign ESP in the field, I am not, in fact, a mind reader," Jim said somewhat impatiently.

Rollin began to speak then stopped as if stumped, his eyes darted about the room trying to determine the best course of action. Thoughts marched across his features, yet none found a voice. He swallowed hard, his expression pained. Anxiety, sadness, anguish, all etched on the man's face.

Jim rose from the chair, concern in his voice, "What is it, Rollin?"

Rollin turned his back and sighed heavily, his voice sounding defeated. "God, Jim, all the…lies and deceptions. All the lies and deceptions we peddle to the world, yet they can't save us from reality."

"Rollin, what are you talking about?"

Moments rolled by before Rollin seemed able to speak, his voice carrying the weight of the sadness in his eyes. He turned back, having gained control of himself, again. "Jim, I have a confession to make."

Jim paused for a moment, mentally preparing himself. "Okay," he replied in a waiting tone, brows furrowed in confusion.

Rollin stepped away, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deep in his pockets. He stopped then steepled his fingers before him as if in prayer, eyes closed, lips resting against the tips of his index fingers. "I wasn't…entirely forthcoming in my debriefing report."

Jim pulled himself up as his gray eyes narrowed, suspiciously, "What're you saying, Rollin?"

"I'm…." Rollin swallowed hard, fear and dolor roiling in his eyes.

Jim shifted his weight to one leg, "C'mon, Rollin, this isn't the time to play games. What did you not tell us?"

"No one's playing games, Jim," Rollin nearly snapped.

"Then tell me. What is this about?"

"Your condition at Doc's office was made to look like a stroke," Rollin finally said, impassively.

Jim made a face, "It was a ruse, Rollin. You know that—"

"No, I—I know that. That's not what I'm talking about."

Jim inwardly sighed, annoyance rising over his fellow agent's enigmatic retorts and seemingly random trains of thought. "Rollin, it's over.," Jim said irritably, his impatience getting the better of him. "You figured it out, you got the team together, you got me out and we averted an assassination. If there was something we missed in going over the mission details then—"

"Forget the mission, Jim." Rollin sighed and hung his head, a hand on his hips, another rubbing his brow.

"Rollin, I can't help you if you don't talk to me," Jim implored, helplessness, annoyance and perpetual bafflement fighting for priority attention. "What are you not telling me?"

Rollin turned around and the two friends locked gazes; Rollin's agitated, almost grief-stricken look meeting Jim's perplexed expression. Rollin's thoughts worked their way across his features before finding voice, a voice tinged with fear and sorrow. "It could really happen, Jim."

Jim's mind instantly grappled with Rollin's train of thought then it suddenly clicked what he was getting at. He slowly sat down on the arm of the chair and thought back through the entire incident and Rollin's debriefing,

'The doctor was in his office when I walked in. I asked about Jim. He said, 'I'm glad someone finally turned up for him.' I asked about Jim's condition, what had happened to him. The doc said he had bad news, that Jim had suffered aphasia and had a stroke. I said, 'why hasn't he been taken to a hospital?'. Doc said Jim was too unstable to be moved. I asked to see him and Doc escorted me to Jim's room…'

He remembered how worried Rollin had been before Jim was able to blink out an SOS, alerting him to the real situation. His concern had been apparent, yes, but not unduly so; certainly not in any way that would have given rise to this sudden worry over it. Rollin's own debriefing hours earlier had been professional, dispassionate, very matter-of-fact; he'd given no hint of the emotional impact the entire incident seemed to have had on him. So why is he upset now? No matter… Emotions notwithstanding, it didn't change the facts. Jim slowly shook his head, "Doctor Premel* gave me a full work up, Rollin. I'm fine."

Rollin stepped up to the IMF team leader and drilled him with a hard look.

Jim glanced away from Rollin's intense gaze. "What do you want me to do, Rollin? Stay in this apartment for the rest of my life? These four walls aren't going to save me anymore than being on a mission."

"You know my answer to that."

Jim glanced up at him, "Do I?"

"We can't ignore it, Jim."

"I'm not ignoring it, Rollin. But it's merely a variable. No different than a sudden change in plan or someone's unexpected arrival. We simply factor it in and adapt. We do it all the time—"

"Not like this, Jim," Rollin insisted. "Not like this. Sometimes we make allowances for changes. If someone walks in we can redirect them or signal our own people. But this…this is exactly the kind of thing that worries me. Something that lies way outside our margin of error. Something that we can't recover from, jeopardizing everyone in the field."

"Rollin—"

"Alright, forget the missions, Jim. Forget this was a mission. What if it really had been a stroke? What if, what if it had been a real town and not a cover? I go back to find you and you really did have a stroke?"

"Then you'd've taken me to a specialist," Jim laid a neutral expression on his fellow agent.

Rollin straightened up and settled a hard gaze on the team leader. "You think this is funny."

"Rollin—" Jim growled in scolding.

"Fine. Alright. Say it happened just as it did," Rollin began, an arm outstretched as he slowly moved around the room. "Except, this time, it wasn't curare, but a real stroke, Jim. In the middle of a mission, in the field, you really do have a stroke. What then?"

"The mission comes first, Rollin. You know that."

"Crying out loud, Jim. Don't you understand? We may not have any idea that's what's really happening! The only way I knew something was amiss was catching your SOS. And that was pure dumb luck, Jim. Pure dumb luck."

"It wasn't luck, Rollin. I changed my breathing, remember? You asked about it."

"Yes, yes, I remember, but –"

"You got up to check on me. That's what I was aiming for! That was my plan. Once I had your attention, I knew I had a chance."

"And what if I'd missed it, Jim? God knows I almost did," Rollin breathed. "Or what if you'd been entirely unable to communicate? Or one of us falls victim to some medical condition and we can't alert the others? That's what I'm getting at. Just like in this instance. For all intents and purposes, Jim, this wasn't a mission. We unwittingly walked right into something, blind as a bat. Hell, what if you'd been heading up to the lodge alone and you really had taken ill? Your body would've turned up and no one would've known the difference."

"Every mission, every case has aspects to it that we can't control, Rollin. All we can do is manipulate and work through misinformation or a redirection of the truth. Half of our plans rely on pure dumb luck, no matter how planned out they are. This was no different than any other case, Rollin."

"There's a world of difference, Jim! How do you not see that? You weren't factored into the play on this. On a mission you've devised, that wouldn't be the case. But what if you or any one of us were taken out of the play because of a real medical issue? It's a domino effect, Jim. One part of the puzzle can't be filled and now everyone is at risk and the mission is jeopardized. You weren't an active participant in this particular case, Jim, so it wasn't an issue. But what about next time? What if you really do have a stroke in the field? The national security implications are too disastrous to even think about, much less….anything else," Rollin sighed.

"Oh, come off it, Rollin. We all sign up for it. I'm no less expendable than anyone else."

"You're the team leader, Jim. You plan the missions. You're the least expendable of all of us," Rollin countered.

"That's not true and you know it."

"It is true, Jim, and I think you're lying to yourself if you believe, otherwise."

"Rollin, I don't make the rules and then sit back on some beach with a mai tai while the rest of you risk your lives. I'm in on the missions, too, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm out there in the field risking just as much as everyone else."

"With more at stake. It never occurred to me before, Jim, and the more I think about it, the more I have to wonder if that's what really happened with Dan," Rollin faced the windows, his hands on his hips. "And the worst part is…we'll never know." Rollin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in the weighted silence. He rubbed his face in his hands and after several moments, finally let his hands drop and faced Jim again. "But we can't ignore the possibility that one of us could be taken out of the play just like that. Not by the enemy or some misstep in the plan but felled by some run-of-the-mill medical issue that no one saw coming. It could happen, Jim."

"Of course it could happen, Rollin. But just how do you propose we plan for that? How do you propose we factor that in?" Jim spread his hands.

Rollin rubbed his forehead, "I don't know…damn it, I don't know. I just know….we need to. Somehow. I just…I don't know." Rollin folded his arms, eyes on the floor.

That's it, Jim realized with sudden clarity. That's where this is coming from isn't it? When the incident turned into a mission, it changed the rules and that's when it'd hit you. Rollin… Jim sighed, not wanting to prolong the discussion and get caught in a never-ending circular argument. Now that he realized the source of Rollin's fear, he could confront it head-on. But not right now. It was too big to deal with right now…."Alright, you've made your point. We'll discuss this later with the rest of the team. But after I get some shut-eye. Besides, ya knucklehead, why didn't you bring it up earlier? You had nine hours to do it."

Rollin chewed on his thumbnail. "I thought we were going to discuss it; it was hinted at enough times. But something always seemed to derail that conversation before we got to it. I thought it best, in the end, to simply wait until I had your full attention."

Jim glanced at Rollin with a curious glint in his eye. "What would you have done if it had been a real town and I'd really had a stroke?"

Rollin considered it for a moment. "Well, I would've had you transferred to a hospital, found you the best specialist there was. Nursed you back to health and, hopefully, once you were on your feet again, I would've proceeded to knock your block off."

They shared a soft chuckle and locked gazes; the silence stretched and the world of spies and intrigue fell away enclosing them within the intimate circle of camaraderie and friendship.

The mirth slowly faded as Rollin bore into the soft blue-gray of Jim's eyes and tears softly glistened. 'You really scared me, Jim. You really scared the hell out of me," he finally said, his voice wavering.

Jim's eyes dropped to the floor and he flicked up a remorseful glance back at his friend, hands splayed helplessly at his sides. "I'm sorry, Rollin," was all he could offer in a soft whisper.

"God, Jim, you have no idea…" Rollin stepped away, pain on his face, hand slipping off of Jim's forearm. "No idea what I went through in that office, in that room," he took a deep breath.

Emotion roiling within, Jim mentally drew back. It was ever-dawning on him how it must have been for Rollin to have driven back to find him – expecting to find a simple mechanical breakdown of the car - only to get the rug pulled out from under him.

"When he said 'aphasia'…when he said you'd had a stroke, the world… crumpled in on itself." Rollin paused for a long moment, eyes clenched. "I couldn't breathe, Jim. The room…wavered; his voice…was underwater. There's no way to convey…how sick I felt when I walked into that room….and you were motionless. All I saw was a, a long road filled with the, the bland, white walls of nursing homes with barely-used checkerboards and the ever-present smell of liniment oil and antiseptic ointments. People shuffling in the corridors…your days filled with one-sided conversations while you wasted away—" the lean IMF agent hissed an intake of breath against the words he couldn't say.

"Rollin…" Jim said, sotto voce, trying to snap his best friend out of the nightmare he'd devised for himself.

Rollin turned with a look on his face that broke Jim's heart and he met Jim's pained expression. "I can't stop reliving it, Jim. And I can't stop thinking about what might have happened. When it became apparent what was really going on, all the…thousand what-ifs came at me that I hadn't…I hadn't ever considered before, you know? Not like this." Rollin rubbed his eyes, "I can't get over it, Jim. I can't…get over that I… My God, Jim, I almost missed it; I almost missed the Morse Code you threw at me. Do you understand? I dismissed it. Completely. I can't get over that, Jim. Do you have any idea how close…?" Rollin rubbed his face, his expression grim.

"Rollin…" Jim whispered as he gently grabbed Rollin's shoulder. "I'm here, Rollin. I'm here and I'm fine," Jim offered a small smile.

Rollin's haunted grey eyes stared back at the team leader.

Jim squeezed Rollin's shoulder and moved over to the wet bar, glasses and bottles clinking as he prepared a couple of drinks.

Rollin watched with some measure of curiosity. "What're you doing? I thought you were going to bed." Rollin wiped his eyes, trying to ease his emotions down.

"Set up the chess board, will you?"

Frowning, Rollin automatically turned toward the cabinet where Jim kept the chess set, "What for?"

'My best friend got me out of a jam. Now it's my turn."

Rollin found the set in the cabinet and began to set it up. He paused and watched as Jim set the drinks on the table.

Rollin grabbed his arm, affection on his features as he searched Jim's face. "You don't really have to do this, you know?"

Jim threw him a decisive look. "Did you pick a side?" he asked.

Rollin's eyes narrowed. "No. Not yet."

Jim grabbed a chess piece and placed it in Rollin's hand. "There," Jim smirked then grabbed a chair and sat down.

Rollin looked at the white knight in his hand and a grin widened on his face, amused at Jim's penchant for symbolism. He flicked a glance at Jim who merely answered him with a mischievous glance and a sip of his drink. Rollin laughed to himself, shook his head and took his seat across from Jim and the two men commenced with the game.

finis

*From Season 2's 'The Widow"